


ink

by peggycarterisacat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, i hate soulmate AUs but here we go anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: It's been five years since the discovery of magic that connects soulmates by ink-- words written on one's skin transferring to the other, no matter how far away.For five years, Jaime's skin has stayed blank.(I'm gonna rewrite this, so hiatus for now, sorry)





	ink

It was Tyrion's birthday — his last birthday before Jaime would leave for university — and he wanted to find his soulmate.

It left a bitter taste in Jaime's mouth — the entire concept of soulmates. But Tyrion only wanted to know he was loved, and Jaime couldn't bring himself to break those hopes. Jaime had wanted the same thing, once.

After he parked outside the parlor — not only was this place  _ licensed, _ imagine that, it had the best reviews online, and he wasn't about to take Tyrion anywhere else that might botch it — he hesitated before taking the key out of the ignition.

"She might not answer you right away," Jaime said, trying to temper Tyrion's expectations. "Maybe she hasn't had hers done yet. She could be younger, or her parents won't let her, or— lots of reasons, really." Jaime had told himself those same things, but with the passing of the years, those excuses turned brittle, hollow, empty.

"But she will— eventually," Tyrion said, and he looked so determined that Jaime didn't have the heart to try and dissuade him.

Jaime nodded. "She will," he said, even though it tasted like a lie.

"Will you get yours done, too?" Tyrion asked as they got out of the car and walked up to the storefront.

"That takes all the excitement out of it," Jaime said, with a grin that came out a touch too brash.

Tyrion didn't know— Jaime already had his done. Years ago, when this ritual was newly developed and magic was still illegal for going against the laws of the Faith, Cersei had dragged him to a witch's shop on the outskirts of town. Jaime'd been happy enough just to ditch class, and the idea of  _ soulmates _ interested him.

You wrote on your skin and the ink would appear on theirs, and then they would reply. That was the way it was supposed to work, anyway. But if there was no one on the other end — whether they hadn't had it done, or if there just wasn't anyone out there whose soul fit with yours — nothing would happen.

Was there someone out there for everyone? Or were some people just destined to be alone? No one knew— it hadn't been around long enough for every bit of it to be studied, and how did you study something like this, anyway?

When they scribbled all over their arms that afternoon, Cersei got an answer. Jaime didn't. He'd tried to shrug it off — it wasn't legal here, no one had done it, of course no one had answered him — or maybe the witch had messed his up.

Until a couple of years later, when it got legalized through the courts and then  _ everyone _ was finding their soulmates, and Jaime still didn't have an answer, even though he wrote every night.

"What if your soulmate is out there, waiting?" Tyrion said. "And you don't know because you haven't had it done, and she thinks she's alone? That no one loves her, and no one ever will?"

_ What if. _

"Let's just worry about you today," Jaime said.

He waited in the lobby as Tyrion went back. He didn't think the procedure had changed much since he had it done, but it wasn't like Jaime had been keeping close tabs on magical technology— was technology the right word? Or was that an oxymoron?

He remembered a room filled with fog or steam or whatever. It smelled like fruity shampoo, masking something harsher underneath— it tasted like mint every time he took a breath, cool and tingling in his mouth, and that sensation had spread through the rest of him, down to his toes. The witch had taken a drop of his blood, smeared it up his wrist, and when he looked after they were done, it had vanished. Words chanted that he didn't understand, and then fingertips dipped into soot—

How much of it had been bullshit showmanship? And what had she done? Had she missed something, messed it up, and could it be fixed?

Everyone Jaime knew had someone. Cersei, everyone at school. Judging from the times Jaime saw her writing, he didn't think it was someone in Westeros, and she wasn't the only one. There was the kid in Jaime's art elective who'd switched into a language class halfway through the term because he'd started getting messages in Yi-Tian. The girl with the locker next to his, who had a panic attack on the airplane on the way to debate finals in King's Landing, had someone across the sea in Tyrosh— last week Jaime saw her in the library looking up flight times, on the verge of tears.

Wouldn't it be worth it, though? Once she got there and they finally met?

"There are ferries that go across the Narrow Sea," he said the next time he ran into her. The drinking age was lower in international waters, not that he knew from experience, and not that Dad gave a shit if they drank anyway, so long as it didn't affect anything outside their home.

But she nodded, and maybe he was imagining it, but she looked a little less anxious when she walked away.

He'd walked away feeling even more like shit.

When Jaime really felt like hating himself, he'd look up artsy couples on Instagram. That one video where he dotted pigment onto his skin, and she used a water brush on hers, and they made a painting together. Others— stylized swirling designs, or that whole thing where up close it looked like nothing but dots but the picture came together as you stepped away, or designs and patterns from different cultures mixing and melding together on the skin.

It was sickening and sweet and _ god  _ Jaime wanted it, never mind that he couldn't even draw. He  _ was _ taking the art class, but it wasn't making him any better— he'd only signed up because he had to fill an elective and he'd heard the teacher was an easy grader. Which was, thankfully, true. Lines didn't like to cooperate with him, never went where he wanted.

Not that it really mattered. When in his life was he going to need to draw anything? As long as this didn't wreck his grades, he would be fine— college applications were just around the corner, and even then he wasn't worrying much. He'd be a  _ legacy _ at King's University — the Lannisters had attended there for generations — and coaches from  _ each _ of the big three had come to see him play. It was as close to a done deal as you could get.

Of the big schools, King's was maybe the most prestigious — royalty and most of the old names had gone there — but not the most historied. That was Oldtown. But the most difficult the get into was Aegon Five, Aegon V's last act before he dismantled the monarchy. Intended to level the field between the aristocracy and everyone else — it was just as rigorous as any of the others, but funded by a sizeable endowment. Enough so that they didn't have to charge tuition. And no one really knew what they looked for in admissions — in previous years, some of the upperclassmen Jaime thought would be a sure thing had been rejected, and others accepted. It was more a gamble than anything, hopeful kids bouncing around on a roulette wheel for a chance to get in.

Too much to worry about, in Jaime's opinion. There were plenty of things more immediately relevant, like the tap of footsteps coming back up to the lobby.

Perhaps the most unexpected change this soulmate thing had made to the world was the way it disrupted the cosmetics industry.

Other things were predictable. An epidemic of divorces. Demand for non-toxic, easily washable pens and paint and markers, in a variety of colors.

But makeup — it was all pigment on skin, wasn't it? There'd been a weird few months of standoff — boyfriends washing it all off their faces just as quickly as their girlfriends could put it on, and then there were the two girls who sat in the back of statistics —

"We don't have the same  _ undertones," _ Jaime heard one complain, wiping lipstick off her mouth. "Don't you own anything neutral?"

"Black is neutral, right?" the other had asked — apparently it hadn't been neutral enough, because the argument lasted several more days.

And then when capitalism finally galloped in to save the day — lotions and primers, barriers between skin and pigment — it still wasn't perfect. Difficult to apply around the eyes, as he'd been told by  _ many _ guys overly concerned with projecting their masculinity all over the place. But eyeliner on guys wasn't all bad, Jaime thought, now that he'd had a couple of years to get used to it. Some guys — some  _ people, _ male or female — had really nice eyes. It wasn't weird to notice something like that.

So when Tyrion appeared wearing eyeshadow, Jaime knew.

"It doesn't match your undertones," he joked, and Tyrion was practically glowing as he looked at himself in the mirror.

They bought cupcakes at the bakery down the street, and Tyrion wrote his first words onto his arm. It was only a few minutes before he got an excited response back, the letters appearing so quickly they almost came out in one big blob.

"She's just down in Lannisport," he said.

Jaime smiled, but good god he was feeling bitter. "I'll drive you down sometime," he promised.

* * *

 

Jaime woke late on a Saturday, and the first thing he saw was a dick on his palm. A crudely drawn dick, in what looked like bleeding Sharpie. A line of messy dicks marching their way up the inside of his arm, almost all the way to his armpit— then a scribble and a streak as if the pen had been slapped away.

He stared at it a moment, then fell out of bed trying to scramble to his feet. He'd never been so happy to see a dick in his life.

Down his other forearm,  _ hello _ written in a dozen languages, and almost as many different handwritings. Little stars climbing up his stomach, and something else— he pulled his shirt off. There was something written across his chest, but he couldn't make it out. Jaime was shit at reading, especially shit at reading cursive, and even more shit at reading upside down.

He dashed down the hall to the bathroom to look in the mirror, realized halfway there that reading backwards wouldn't be any easier, stopped, sprinted back to his room, grabbed his phone, and took a picture of his chest.

There, in perfect cursive, were the words  _ for a good time, call— _ and a phone number.

Jaime didn't even hesitate before dialing it.

It rang out and went to voicemail— no more information from that, either, just a robotic voice reading back the number he had dialed and telling him to leave a message. He didn't bother. No one actually listened to voicemail.

He could send a text — hell, he could write a message back — but what should he  _ say? _ Now that he'd been halted he realized that he really had no plan. He had to think about this. He couldn't just babble whatever— he had to be cool. This had to be— fuck. He had no idea what to  _ say. _

A quick check out the door — no one was coming — and Jaime raced down the hall to Tyrion's room. He was better with words.

"How do you talk to Tysha?" he asked as soon as the door opened, and Tyrion stopped, looked at him, and burst out laughing before letting him in.

"You have a mustache," he managed to get out between gasps for breath.

Jaime pulled up his camera again and stared at himself. He did, long and curling up over his cheeks, like a cartoon villain.

"Wait. You said you hadn't had it done," Tyrion said—

Jaime shook his head. "I got it a long time ago— no one ever answered."

Tyrion thought about it for a second, and pointed at Jaime's chest. "Did you call?"

"Voicemail— What should I text? What do I say?"

"Say whatever you want," Tyrion shrugged. "It's your soulmate. You'll work it out."

He had a point, but still. This was the sort of thing people remembered forever— first meetings and all that. Jaime didn't want to fuck it up. Already, the story was ' _ I woke up graffitied like a gas station bathroom,' _ and that just wasn't romantic.

"Wait— it's going—"

Jaime looked down, and the ink was starting to bleed, all of it trailing down his skin in drips. No actual liquid, just the pigment— the shadow of the running ink reflected on his skin until it washed away. Shower? The dicks were the first to go, scrubbed away until they'd mostly faded, just tiny veins of ink clinging and mirroring the texture of skin.

"I need a picture of the mustache before it goes," Tyrion said, and snapped a picture before Jaime could protest. "Just in time. Gone now."

The words on his chest were scrubbed away next, and the stars washed away in their wake, and then, last of all, the hellos all down his forearm. Jaime deflated a little. It was all gone now, the evidence that someone out there in the world loved him.

"Not all of it's gone." Tyrion pointed at Jaime's shoulder.

There, on his deltoid, was a sword— clean and minimalistic in its design. Jaime rubbed his thumb over it. It didn't budge. "I think it's an actual tattoo."

Ink under the skin transferred, too— There was the girl down the street, who'd gone out to get it done and returned with a screaming mother and full sleeves down both arms. She seemed happy though, if you ignored the screaming mother, which she seemed to do often enough.

This was a little more subtle, but—

"That's not a very girly tattoo," Tyrion said slowly.

It wasn't a very girly tattoo. He stared at it, traced his fingers down the blade.

"I'm gonna try calling again," he said, retreating back to his room.

When he called again, it disconnected after the first ring— he— was it a he? He'd rejected the call. Jaime grabbed a marker.

_ ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE _ , he scrawled down his arm, and waited just a moment before he hit _ call  _ again.

This time, it picked up.

"Hello?" It was a deep man's voice— definitely a man.

"Hi," Jaime said. His heart might pound out of his ribcage with terror, or surprise, or the realization that he'd never once thought of men, like, sexually, before and this guy had a  _ really _ nice voice— he laid back on his bed. This... brought up a lot of questions, things he'd never thought about before. Maybe thinking wouldn't be the most productive thing right now — he found himself wondering what that voice while be like in person. Even over the phone it went straight through to Jaime's core and left him kind of light and trembly, as if he'd just run a few miles, leaving his head spinning and his body struggling to settle back down.

"I really don't want to be a dick about this," the guy said. "I don't believe in any of this soulmate stuff. Nothing against you if you do— I'm sorry. However this works, however they put people together— someone else would have come up for you, and now I've fucked that up—"

"No," Jaime said. "I've been waiting for years — there wasn't going to be anyone else."

There was a pregnant pause. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I never would've done this, except I guess my friends thought it would be funny."

The possibility of this hadn't even been a whisper in the back of Jaime's mind — he'd always assumed that there was no one out there for him. But now he knew there was someone, yet he was still unwanted. His brain spun, looking for words, and accomplished about as much as a car's tires in a muddy ditch. "You don't even want to try?"

There was a moment where he didn't say anything. "This isn't personal. I know what you're expecting from me, what people expect from a  _ soulmate _ , but we don't know a single damn thing about each other."

"That's the point— we can get to know each other."

The man on the other end of the line —  his  _ soulmate  _ — didn't say anything, but he didn't hang up, either. Jaime heard him exhale, and then he said, "If you get to know me, am I always going to be compared to some other version of me that you've built up in your head? It's this whole idealized thing, soulmates — life isn't that neat and clean."

"I know you're a  _ person," _ Jaime said, indignant. He had imagined so many people over the years that he honestly wasn't picturing anything anymore. It wasn't about the details— as long as they could love each other, Jaime wasn't picky about the rest. "I guess I had one expectation, and you've already broken that one."

"Because I'm a man, or because I think this is all kind of bullshit?"

Jaime reconsidered. "Okay, two things."

He sighed. "If you're not into men, I don't know why you even want to try—"

"I didn't say that— it was just a surprise. Not a bad surprise, I'd just never thought about it— I could definitely be into you," he said, feeling like he was stumbling down a flight of stairs. "You have a really nice voice?"

"Thanks, but seriously. Have some standards. If you're not interested in men, you're not interested in men, don't try to force yourself because some— witch? Witches do this, right? Because some witch told you so."

"I'm not forcing myself. I'm— I'm learning. Learning new things about myself."

The silence on the line somehow managed to be completely skeptical in tone.

"What? You think just because a witch is involved, all these realizations I'm having don't count?" Because there was more than one realization going on. He'd never been very interested in girls, besides whatever the hell had happened with Cersei when they were like twelve. It had ended just as soon as they left the witch's house bespelled, and he usually tried not to think about it much. "A lot of things are making sense." He took a breath. "I get that you don't believe in soulmates, but aren't you even curious?"

"Curiosity isn't enough— I don't want us to get attached to each other just to find out soulmates don't exist and we can't actually stand each other, or you're straight after all, or any other million reasons—" he trailed off.

"With  _ any _ relationship, there's the chance that it won't work out," Jaime protested. "But that doesn't mean you should never  _ try." _

He didn't have anything to say to that, it seemed.

After a moment, Jaime tried again. "We don't have to call it a relationship— we don't have to call it anything. We can just talk for a while, see how you feel in a couple of months—" Maybe he didn't believe now, but if Jaime just had a bit of time— "Please, just give me a chance."

He held his breath, waiting, for a moment before he got an answer.

"Only if you do, too," came the decision, sounding a little more resigned than Jaime had hoped for.

"What do you mean?"

"We're both giving each other a chance here. Whether you like me matters just as much—"

Words just popped out of Jaime's mouth. "I already like you," he said.

That stopped him for a moment.  _ "Why?" _ he asked.

That wasn't the right thing to say, was it? "Do I need a reason?" Jaime asked. Was it not enough that he existed, that there was a chance, that Jaime might not be alone in this word forever?

"That would be nice, yes."

"Then I'll keep a list," Jaime promised. "Now can we stop arguing about whether or not we should like each other and just start figuring it out?"

"Yeah," he said, finally. "I'm Arthur."

Jaime grinned. Progress.

"I'm Jaime."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at: [peggycarterisacat](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) for general fandom stuff, [peggycarterisacat-fic](https://peggycarterisacat-fic.tumblr.com/) for fic updates.


End file.
